Category Archives: South Pole

There is a long history of traverses in Antarctica. From the original expeditions to explore the mysterious frozen continent and reach the South Pole accomplished via foot, ski, and sledge to the modern day tractor traverse endeavors. One of the first tractor traverses was across West Antarctica from the Little America base to establish Byrd Station during the 1956-57 International Geophysical Polar (IGY) year.

In 2007-08 and 2008-09 the Norwegian-U.S. Scientific Traverse covered much of East Antarctica collecting data on past climate. Since then there have been several more traverses to assist the Pine Island Glacier (PIG) camp and WISSARD project. Last year and this season traverses were used to retrieve cargo left at Pine Island Glacier and Byrd.

While there are a growing number of small tourist/exploration traverses via trucks or ski, most modern traverses support scientific projects that require mobility and various sample sites along the traverse route. Alternatively, some traverses are simply for moving cargo and/or fuel. However counterintuitive, it is much cheaper to drag weight over the snow behind tractors than it is to fly it! Our little traverse this year and the PIG traverse last year fall into this category.

The PIG-WAIS Traverse leaving Pine Island Glacier during the 2014-15 season

The Byrd-WAIS-PIG Traverse leaving Byrd in 2012-13

The Byrd-WAIS-PIG Traverse fuel bladders leaving Byrd in 2012-13

An AN-8 fuel tank at the South Pole

Perhaps the most well-known traverse is the South Pole Overland Traverse (SPOT) that hauls fuel from McMurdo, where it is supplied via ocean tanker, to the South Pole Station. The Antarctic Sun published an article in 2008 covering SPOT which can be found here: antarcticsun.usap.gov/features. All operations down here rely on a low-grade jet fuel. It’s what the LC-130 Hercs and other aircraft burn as well as being close enough to diesel that all our heavy equipment and generators run on it as well. Some additives are added for Antarctic operations to lower the freezing/gelling point – thus the AN-8 or JP-8 terms used.

A remote fuel drum cache for aircraft near Byrd

At the South Pole large generators burn this fuel to supply power to the station. The waste heat is captured to melt snow for water and to heat the main station. Heavy equipment is necessary to clear snow from around the buildings and berms, groom the skiway for the planes, and move cargo. It’s vital to supporting science and life down here. They burn over 300,000 gallons annually. Summit Station in Greenland on the other hand, burns only about 40,000 gallons while WAIS Divide (a large deep field camp) goes through roughly 45,000 gallons during the summer season. WAIS burns so much fuel in part because it initially supported a 24/7 deep ice core drilling operation, which required massive generators. Since drilling has ceased they have primarily supported airborne surveys of the region with Twin Otters and Baslers, which also uses significant amounts of fuel.
At the year-round stations the big push in the short summer season is building up the fuel reserve for winter. Ideally 50,000 gallons are on site at Summit Station in Greenland before the end of summer and more than 400,000 gallons at the South Pole station!

45 tanks (10,000 gallons each) sit inside one of the arches at the South Pole

Looking along the fuel arch at Pole

The emergency fuel cache tanks at the end of the world at Pole

A field camp 10,000 gallon bladder at Byrd

Typically, fuel is flown in via Hercs, however this is a terribly inefficient process. I’ve been told various ratios and it depends heavily on winds and cargo loads, but on flights to the Pole Hercs burn between one and three gallons for every gallon delivered. A few years ago the South Pole Traverse was developed as an alternative to supplying fuel to the South Pole.

In Greenland a similar operation called the Greenland Inland Traverse, or “GrIT”, is used to haul fuel from ocean tanker supplied Thule on the NW coast to Summit Station.

Winter 2013 is officially over. On November 5, 2013 I departed the South Pole aboard an LC-130 Herc all but empty with just a handful of DVs (distinguished visitors) flying out after a tour of Pole and two of us winterovers with our baggage. The flight crew was very friendly and while most of the pax slept I went up to the cockpit and chatted with the pilots as we flew over the nunataks and exposed rocky peaks of the Transantarctic Mountains. “So, you wintered this year? Like, just now?” “Um, yeah. I’m on my way out, these are the first rocks I’ve seen since February!” “Wow…what was it like?” Where could I even begin? “Dark and cold.” I said and everyone laughed.

How can I describe winter? How can I sum it up into one clear and concise sentence? How can I explain the feeling of seeing that last plane leave? Of seeing the glorious, impossibly bright, life giving orb that is the sun sink below the horizon and know that I will not see it again for half a year? How do I convey the thrill of watching the mercury plummet getting closer and closer to the mythical threshold of -100F, and then the excitement when it actually reaches that number?
How can I explain the auroras to someone who has never seen them? Ethereal lights dancing across the sky. And the stars…my god, the stars, with the Milky Way so bright you can see the faint colors in it and our nearest neighboring galaxies the magellanic clouds as clearly delineated as the darkest spot known as the “coal sack.”
How can I explain the cold? The breathtaking, teeth-aching cold that makes plastic shatter and even metal become alarmingly brittle. A depth of cold that seeps in through the holes in the stitching at your seams and weighs your eyelashes with ice and frost?
And how can I explain the weariness? The exhaustion that no amount of sleep can alleviate, the energy expelled by living at 10,000ft and wearing 20lbs of clothes and burning calories just to maintain regular body temperature…How can I explain Toast, not just feeling burn out, but the sluggishness of thought and lapses of memory?

And where do I begin on how we tormented and grated on each other? Small things like someone laughing too loudly, or big things like someone deciding the only way they’ll be happy is when ever one else is unhappy… but on the flip side, how can I explain the intensity of bonds that form in the face of that adversary? The biggest challenge of winter isn’t the cold or the darkness, the isolation or physical demands, it’s the people, hands down.

I had a day in McMurdo. I had friends who met up with me, who walked with me through the overwhelming galley and sat with me at a table against the wall. It’s hard to be surrounded by strangers after knowing everyone by their walk/stance alone. A day in McMurdo, the halfway house, is good. I didn’t have to jump right into finding transportation and accommodation and paying for food…Once in Christchurch the first night is covered, but after that you’re on your own, and many flights get in late.

On Wednesday November 6, I arrived in Christchurch, New Zealand. This is perhaps the most perfect country to return to after wintering. It’s beautiful and friendly. There are epic valleys and huge expanses of wilderness to get lost in. There are magnificent birds and plants and no snakes and no poisonous animals (except for one sole native spider only found in the most remote regions). There are no lions or tigers or bears…no large mammals of any kind to be exact, except for some cows and lots and lots of sheep. New Zealand is temperate, and right now in late November it is just at the beginning of summer. Winter at the South Pole with it’s -130F windchill and flat white horizon seems like a dream a long time ago and far far away.

I limit this blog to my exploits in the Arctic and Antarctic. For now, I will be taking a break to explore the world and indulge in all that my senses have lacked. I will resume posting here upon my next high latitude adventure, which will probably be sooner rather than later.
Please feel free to leave a comment below if you wish to contact me. I will also be posting pictures at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/antarcticarctic/. *I will not be updating Picasa anymore*

Thanks for following and for all your questions and comments this season!

November 1, 2013 – The weather is clear, just warm enough (above -50C), and calm. After two hours of mechanical delays the radio in comms crackles “Skier 51 is offdeck enroute to Pole.” The first LC-130 Herc is on it’s way. Touching down at just after 3:40pm Winter is officially over. They brought in 32 members of the summer crew and over 2000lbs of “freshies.”

It’s with mixed feelings that we transition to summer. There’s a part of me that thinks “That’s my table! My chair!” frustrated at the line for food in the galley. I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge a new sense of camaraderie between my fellow winterovers. It’s hard to describe. Hard to answer the question “How was winter?” It’s almost sad to know that it’s over now, like finishing an engrossing novel…not necessarily good or bad, just all consuming. Now, the station feels crowded, a bit like my place is gone.

It’s somewhat disconcerting to not recognize everyone’s walk and laugh. Not to know without a doubt who’s hat you glimpsed as they went around a corner. Not to know who it is just by the sound of their footsteps in the hall. But there’s also an almost tangible sense of relief. People laughing and smiling. We won’t be here forever, it’s alright if we’re tired, help has arrived. It’s good to see familiar happy faces, their enthusiasm and opptimism rubbing off just a little on our jaded selves. They’re just starting, all tan and rested and raring to go. Well, I’m happy to turn things over to them. And I know Cheech (Christchurch, NZ) is waiting, with it’s bright green grass and decadent flowers, it’s salty ocean breeze and cool wet sand, it’s fresh food and no reason to get up early except to watch the sun rise.

(I am not an official representative of the NSF or USAP, all opinions stated below are mine personally and do not necessarily reflect those of the NSF, USAP, or the US Government)

“All field and research activities not essential to human safety and preservation of property will be suspended.”

Friends have lost their jobs, research opportunities are lost forever, and the sheer logistical nightmare of shutting down USAP operations is underway. With the US government shutdown federal funding has been cut across the board and the NSF is no exception. The USAP has lost funding and is moving forward with a plan to run the stations in “Caretaker Status.” This means we’ll have a very minimal skeleton crew, no field camps, no science, just maintaining the stations so they can be used again next year. For example, the peak population at the South Pole this summer might be 50 people, rather than the 250 scientists and support staff of previous seasons. McMurdo might max out at 100-150, rather than 1200. Rumors abound and facts change daily, but either way much of the science and projects for this upcoming season have been cancelled and it’s too late to put it back on line.

It’s been hard – the program is just ramping up to begin the short summer research season. The winter across the continent is long, dark, and cold. Research projects, surveys of all sorts, construction projects, maintenance projects, resupply, and anything beyond the immediate vicinity of the stations is all but impossible during the winter. Not to mention research projects that involve the sea, animals, remote sites, the dry valleys…There is one window for all of that work each year – and it’s only about 5 months long. The last government shutdown (1995-96) came in the middle of the season when it was too late to turn things around. This time, however, the entire year has been cancelled – and even if the government figures things out, it’s already too late. The USAP is moving forward with a plan to shut the program down. The USAP announced the decision on Oct 8 (the full press release can be found here):

“Under caretaker status, the USAP will be staffed at a minimal level to ensure human safety and preserve government property, including the three primary research stations, ships and associated research facilities. All field and research activities not essential to human safety and preservation of property will be suspended.” They continue, “It is important to note, however, that some activities cannot be restarted once seasonally dependent windows for research and operations have passed, the seasonal workforce is released, science activities are curtailed and operations are reduced.”

Thankfully, I’m only affected peripherally. Pole already has a minimal crew in winter and I’m at the end of my contract, still planning to leave Pole in early November. The incoming crew will get the brunt of it. This next season will indeed be…unique. I have many friends who made it to McMurdo and are now being sent home, or who are in the process of deploying right now, or who were planning on it…friends who quit their jobs, rented out their homes, put everything in storage, and were relying on the paycheck of a several month contract.

I know that established ‘ice people’ are resilient and will figure something out, but it won’t be easy. If you were planning on going to the ice and have been laid off, check out Bill Spindler’s link above (he might have some more resources) and the Facebook group “Ice Friends Helping Ice Friends” has plethora of housing and seasonal job ads. For those of you who were on your way down for the first time, there’s nothing I can say to make it any better. It’s heartbreaking, I know, and I am truly deeply sorry. I hope you will have another chance someday – Don’t give up!

My own experience reaching the ice was thwarted two years in a row. I had decided early in elementary school that one day I would go to Antarctica. It was a dream come true when, almost a decade later, I was hired as a Core Handler for the WAIS Divide project in 2008. The day prior to deploying (my bags packed, tickets in hand, everything in storage…) I crashed my bicycle and separated my shoulder. NPQ’d. I was devastated. Six months later I was hired to be one of a few Field Operations Assistants at Toolik Field Camp in Northern Alaska. It was a foot in the door, a way into the seemingly elite world of polar logistics and I had an invitation to return as a Core Handler for WAIS Divide that upcoming austral summer. Yet again, however, my hopes were dashed when I tore my ACL in a skiing accident a week before heading north. I struggled to find something to do instead. Everything was set on working at the Poles. I had majored in Geology in part because I figured Glaciology would be one of the best ways to get to Antarctica. My geology field work was studying glaciers with the Juneau Icefield Research Program, and I returned as staff to lead the Mass Balance project the summer after graduating. Flying to Europe after high school, I pressed myself to the little plastic window, peering excitedly down at the blinding white expanse of the Greenland ice sheet – “I will go there someday.”
With three seasons in a row shot down, I hated to think that this just wasn’t meant to be. I had felt innately drawn to the ice, to polar work in general- both to the research and logistics. After so long I couldn’t just give it all up and do something else. I grew even more determined. I pressed all my friends in Geology, glaciology, science support – anyone I knew who knew someone who had been to the Ice, who had been to Toolik or Barrow, who had been to Greenland. I called on professors at the University in my home town and emailed researchers around the world. I applied to every job I might barely qualify for…and begged for recommendations and contacts from friends in the field. I didn’t care what I did or if I got paid, it was just a matter of getting my foot in the door. It was hard to get a job without knowing someone.Finally it paid off.
In early 2010 I got a call asking if I would like to work as the Field Coordinator at Summit Station, Greenland. I couldn’t believe it. Could I PQ and deploy in 2 weeks? Sure! Did I want to spend April-August in the heart of the Greenland ice sheet? ABSOLUTELY. I tried not to get my hopes up, tried to have backup a plan. I didn’t let myself get too excited until I was in Kanger, Greenland…then on the herc, then on the ice sheet itself looking up at the contrails of planes heading to Europe. Everything fell into place after that. Since then I have bounced between Antarctica and Greenland working as a General Assistant (GA), Science Tech, Cargo (when I started this blog), and as a Heavy Equipment Operator (HEO). And here I am, wrapping up my first Antarctic winter at the Pole in Waste Management/Spill Response. I might just be a lifer.

We joke that it’s not all rainbows and penguins. Seasons are hard – the frenetic pace of summer is exhausting, but so is the marathon of winter. Most jobs are very physical demanding, though the social situation can be even more challenging. There are a growing number of people who are here because they can’t find a job at home – they don’t necessarily want to be here and don’t necessarily like it here, and they bring everyone else down. But there are also people who love it here, who come not for money, but for the idea, the community, and the adventure. I’m really ready to go at the end of each season, sometimes wondering why I do this to myself, and yet as soon as I step off the ice I’m thinking about the next season. The lows might be LOW, but the highs are HIGH. Plus, it’s pretty nice to work for a few months and then get a few months off. But above and beyond all that – the simple truth is that I love it! I love the ice, I love Antarctica, I love the cold, I love the Hercs, I love the excitement of a new season, I love the crazy research, I love the dichotomies of this extreme world, I love the simpleness of the world here, the pureness. I refer you once more to Genevieve’s blog and her most recent post, A Sordid Love Story, about her love of the ice, her first deployment, and the pain of almost being sent home this year. She puts words to these feelings better than I can.

Anyone who has worked or researched on the ice knows weather rules all…delays are just part of the game, but this season is a whole new story. Science hasn’t just been delayed – it’s been cancelled. And that’s the only reason any of us are here – to support science. With the climate changing as it is, it’s more important than ever to study what we can, to try to understand these systems and quantify the rate of melting ice. Politics aside, in the grand scheme of things it’s too late to turn things around. There is no debate or disagreement among the global scientific community. Millions of people have been affected by climate change and millions more will be. The sea level is rising and will continue to rise. That’s the thing about science; It’s true whether you believe it or not. It blows my mind that a group like the Tea Party Republicans can exist in this day and age, demanding a state based on “Christian” beliefs while refusing to help those in need and while they throw their tantrums and refuse to do their jobs we are losing critical scientific and educational opportunities. There is a reason why America is not number 1 in education, research, technology, health, happiness…

But to end things on a lighter note…here are penguins in sweaters! Click on the image to go to the related article:

New Zealand penguins in sweaters after an oil spill this month – the sweaters keep them from pruning themselves and being poisoned by the oil while keeping them warm until they can be cleaned.

After 7 months of being sequestered away – isolated from the rest of the physical world – we welcomed our first planes yesterday. Two Kenn Borek Twin Otters arrived from Rothera on their way to McMurdo! They travel in pairs for SAR purposes. It was strange to hear their voices over the radio, sounding so close, and so…Canadian. Winterovers drifted out to watch – standing on roofs, out on the snow, on the decks, and stairs watching and waving – and then when they had landed we all scuttled to our rooms and at lunch filled one long table in the galley, sitting close and trying not to stare. I wonder what they see in us – with our pale skin, wide eyes, and overgrown facial hair (on the guys at least). It’s beyond strange to see a figure and not be able to immediately identify them by how they are moving alone.

No matter how strange it may be, they have more than made themselves welcome with a bag of freshies! Apples, bananas, and kiwis! Enough for half a piece per person. I stood in line (yes, there was a line in the galley!) and found myself just staring at the kiwis, they were so luminous, so succulent looking, so perfectly real. I have been dreaming of apples though, so I picked one of the halved granny smiths. Perhaps the best apple I have ever tasted. There’s nothing quite like not being able to have something to make it so much more desirable.

They’ll refuel, rest, and wait for the weather in Mac Town to clear then they’ll head onwards. Meanwhile, the atmosphere is crackling with energy reminiscent of a Christmas morning. Still a month to go – but a month filled with changes, flights, and preparations for the summer crew. This is the beginning of the end.

The first Twin Otter touches down on October 5, 2013. -43F and little wind.

We are down to the last month here – 30 more days – and then the C-130 Hercs will begin to arrive, laden with mail, freshies, and the eager, excited, exuberant faces of the summer crew ready to go…It will definitely be a transition and I’m sure I will find myself cringing and wanting to be left alone – crowded by the new people and their optimism, just wanting them to stop smiling so much, stop talking so much…the frenetic pace of summer is exhausting even when you haven’t just survived a 9 month winter!
I’m scheduled to head out just a week after the first Herc arrives, shipped back to the real world, to beautiful New Zealand. Lately as I try to fall asleep, or whenever I let my mind drift, I find myself dreaming of everything the rest of the world has to offer – everything I have missed and yearned for these past long months. Here at Pole there is no dirt, no insects, no wildlife, no birdsong nor animals of any kind. There are no people younger than 22 or older than 65. We have no fresh fruit and only the limited vegetables grown in the green house, no real eggs, and only powered milk. We have showers, but are only allowed two (2minutes long) per week. It’s been an extraordinary experience, both challenging and enlightening, but the sun is up now, it’s relatively warm (-65F) and I think we’re all ready to go.

So here is a list, the idea stolen from a blog of a friend who has wintered here at the Pole twice before:

I want to feel the warmth of sunlight

I want to wake up to bird calls and the rising sun, not the electric screech of an alarm clock

I want to taste the crispness of an apple or an orange on my tongue

I want to let my hair down and feel the wind in it

I want to get my freckles back, even if it means getting sunburned – I want my semi-translucent, pale, dry, skin to draw color and warmth from the sun, to heal

I want to stand barefoot on green grass damp from dew

I want to wiggle my toes in the sand and feel the cold ocean waves wash over my feet grasping at my ankles, begging me to follow them out into the sea

I want to smell the rain – to hear it pattering on rooftops and window sills

I want to wear a skirt and feel warm air against my legs

I want to look at a horizon with puffy clouds and jagged mountains

I want to see the saturated color of dandelions on a stretch of green grass

I want to hear the wind in the trees and the songs of birds

I want to speak with someone whose name I do not know, whose stories I have not heard

I want to take a shower without goose bumps, and to just stand and let the hot water run over me regardless of the time

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it’s all rightLittle darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here“Here Comes the Sun” by the Beatles

The longest night has finally come to a close. After four months of solid darkness the light returned quickly, growing steadily brighter each day. It’s been six months since we last saw the sun’s golden light. Technically the sun breached the horizon on the equinox, September 22, however due to atmospheric distortions it was visible on Saturday September 21. We’ve had a number of stormy days of late providing us with a few glimpses here and there. It circles us now, skimming the horizon, rising in imperceptible increments – a slow and steady spiral.

On Saturday morning I walked out to the ‘end of the world’ – the edge of activity here at the South Pole. Beyond stretched the polar plateau unbroken, unmarked, hundreds of miles of snow and ice ending abruptly to drop off into the sea.
By the time I reached the edge, with all signs of life and human presence behind me, I was well frosted up. My fleece neck gaiter was thick and stiff with ice, a little area melted by my warm exhalations. My eyelashes were coated with thick globs of ice – freezing together or to my gaiter if I was slow in blinking…I pulled off my thick mitten and melted them clear with my bare finger tips, dropping the chunks of ice onto the snow by my feet. I had learned the hard way not to try with just my glove liner. It froze to my eyelashes and then my hand was stuck to my face and my eye was still frozen shut – starting to panic I yanked my hand away, pulling out half my eyelashes with it…which I guess got the ice off too…but not something I wanted to repeat. It was amusing to be sure, but a little uncomfortable.

My eyes open and free of ice I snuggled down into my warm layers, pulling my hood up against the wind, narrowing the gap between hat and gaiter. I stood blinking at the horizon. Thermal layers within the atmosphere distorted the sun shifting it like a mirage – a wavering, shifting orb of incredible brightness and beauty. My eyes watered and I remembered you’re not supposed to stare at it…blinking, I looked down at the snow by my feet, a negative image of the sun burned into my retinas. I felt both over and underwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the light, by the emotions from the past six months, by the thoughts of the season ending and having to face the beautiful and terrible world again, of having to deal with cars and advertising and money and strangers…so many people! Overwhelmed by joy in the sun’s return, in awe of its utter magnificence and yet at the same time by a sadness at the knowledge that unless I return for another winter I will never again see the southern stars pirouetting overhead at noon, or the aurora australis dancing across the sky, illuminating the frozen plateau in a wash of green.
Simultaneously, I felt underwhelmed – a sentiment of “Well, that’s it then.” Resignation. The sun came back and life goes on. These next six weeks will fly by and then I’ll be off and away. I struggled with a deep, welling sense of regret and ache at the troubles and drama of the season, at the fact that a small number of angry people had decided they didn’t want to be here and had tried their very best to bring us all down. That’s been the hardest part of all – the people, but it always is.

“The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.” ― Wallace Stevens, The Palm at the End of the Mind: Selected Poems and a Play

Sunrise here is not as quick and dramatic as at lower latitudes. I took an entire month to transition from the first hint of dawn to the sun itself rising above the horizon. There’s no point in standing and watching it, all you’ll see is the sun sliding sideways 15 degrees per hour. So after a few minutes my fingers were numb and my toes began to complain of cold. I shook myself, glanced up at the sun one last time and turned to walk back to the station. The wind was in my face and my skin ached with the windchill below -100F. The area between my eyes was uncovered and I felt the budding of an ice cream headache. I held my mitten over the gap of my eyes, careful not to let it freeze to my eyebrows or eyelashes, and listened to the crunch of snow beneath my feet as I trudged back towards the station. I thought about returning to the real world, to a world where the sun rises and sets every day! 364 times more than here.

The sun reflecting off the station

Auxiliary fuel tanks at the end of the world

Sunrise on 21 September 2013 at the end of the world

Back inside I got a cup of tea and noticed I was wearing my ‘inside clothes.’ I had absolutely no recollection of changing. I decided I was hungry and went to get a bowl, but by the time I got to the bowls I forgot what I was there for and so got a spoon to stir my tea and returned to my room…I woke one morning recently severely confused as to whether it was 6am or 6pm – had I laid down to close my eyes before dinner? Or was this a new day? TOAST.

Sunrise Dinner

A friend of mine passed away last month in a climbing accident. We worked together on the Juneau Icefield in 2008. The sunrises and sunsets on the icefield are some of the most spectacular I’ve ever witnessed. Breaks in the clouds during this long sunrise reveal an awe inspiring display, reminding me of Kevin’s description of the sky on the icefield: The snow gave way to sky and an explosion of contrast between white earth and ferocious sky drew the air from my lungs and left me feeling entirely insignificant.
Rest in peace Kevin Volkening

The satellite domes near the end of the world

Venus passed the moon early in September over the course of a few hours.

Yesterday a few of us went up on the roof to help replace the covers for the aurora cameras and to install a few pieces of meteorology equipment. The sky was illuminated with streaks of pink and purple. Only 7.7 degrees below the horizon now!

Dawn is upon us. The sky grows lighter each day – swallowing the stars and washing away the auroras. The first faint glow was just visible in the second week of August, by now it’s taken over the sky. Right now it looks like it does at 530am in Denver, or 5:18am in Seattle…with the brightness of the sunrise circling the horizon 24/7, getting just a little lighter each day.

Out for a stroll at -97F (-130F windchill)

On clear days now it’s bright enough to see the sastrugi, to see footprints in the snow, and even to label my triwalls without a headlamp! The sky is a deep blue still speckled with stars and hints of aurorae. This month has been stormy, and on cloudy days it’s dark, a veil of clouds sliding across the horizon taking back what light was just revealed, but it’s lighter than black…on the darkest days of June and July it was hard at times to know if one’s eyes were open or closed. The sun hit its low point of 23.5 degrees on June 21, the solstice. Today it’s at 8º below the horizon – Nautical Twilight. 3 weeks until sunrise!

It’s no warmer outside, but just seeing the light is rejuvenating. It feels like a light at the end of the tunnel, a beacon pulling us forward day by day. I know it’s completely illogical, but there were days when it felt like it was never going to return. Like we would be stuck here forever – the stars spinning round and round above us, the same petty dramas played out on repeat. A skipping record. We still have two months left, so we’re far from done yet, but time is progressing. We’re getting closer to the now nearly mythical first plane.

Life inside the station this past month has lived up to the reputation of “Angry August.” This week however, it’s a new month. The window covers will come down and on the 21 the sun will rise above the edge of the world – a new day.

Days since the last plane: 200!
Days since sunset: 165
Days since midwinter: 73
Days until sunrise: 18
Days until first plane: 59*

*We’re scheduled to get a Basler and a Twin Otter through here in mid-October, but they’ll just be refueling. There will be no cargo/freshies/mail for us and no one but the crew leaving with them. “Our” first plane will be a C-130 Herc scheduled for Nov 1, but that’s always subject to weather and mechanical delays…that date isn’t by any means set in stone, it’s more like the middle of a bell curve.